


If We Could Turn Back Time

by oedipus-tozier (thestrangestbyer)



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Dimension Travel, F/M, M/M, fashion designer Eddie
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-04
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:00:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23478136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thestrangestbyer/pseuds/oedipus-tozier
Summary: Eddie has a picture-perfect life. A well- paid job, a doting wife and, well. Not a whole lot else.He can't imagine life any differently though, and he's given up on wanting much else. This is just adult life, and it could be worse, right?Eddie doesn't let himself want anything for himself until he's shown what could have been.
Relationships: Ben Hanscom/Beverly Marsh, Eddie Kaspbrak/Myra Kaspbrak, Eddie Kaspbrak/Richie Tozier, Patricia Blum Uris/Stanley Uris
Comments: 5
Kudos: 15





	1. Chapter 1

“Learn to fucking drive, asshole!” Eddie yells, pointlessly. The offending driver doesn’t hear him, of course, but as he glares through the windscreen of his car he makes eye-contact with a frowning, middle-aged woman in the lane across from him. Ignoring her disapproval, he slams his palm into his steering wheel; the horn blares loudly at the car ahead of him that just cut him up, to no avail, and he feels the mounting pressure or rage and irritation building. The middle-aged woman in the lane next to him shakes her head, he sees in out of the corner of his eye, and he turns around bodily in the seat to give her a piece of his mind; maybe flip her off or scream at her through the window. Fortunately for the woman, the traffic eases just slightly and Eddie is forced to return to sitting normally behind the wheel, ten and two, so he can inch his car forward and continue the crawl home. 

Home, where Myra excitedly awaits news of his long-awaited promotion. He sighs, resisting the urge to pinch the bridge of his nose or slam his head into the wheel. Fuck, he’s tired. His head pounds painfully and he grits his teeth, unsure how he will conjure a smile once he’s home. Logically, the promotion is an incredible, once-in-a-lifetime kind of opportunity. He’s busted his ass at the firm for years, working extra hours and taking on an unnecessary amount of extra projects and responsibilities. And to be manager, with the prospect of being invited to the board of directors, at his age? It was barely heard of, and just more proof of his hard work and dedication. Myra would be ecstatic to have such a well-paid, respectable husband- it was all she talked about, these days. There was just one minor issue. 

He hadn’t accepted the job. 

*****

He’d gotten into the office early that morning, and immediately known it was happening, or at least would be soon. The rumours had been swirling for a while, and his boss had been piling the responsibilities even higher, seemingly in preparation for his big, new role. In the elevator, Paterson had winked at him, in that smooth, snake-like way- a trait that all his colleagues seemed to possess. It was a showy wink, meant to convey charisma, but looked more like an out of place twitch on the man’s drab, pallid face.

“Big day today,” Paterson had remarked, with the superior smirk of someone in a higher position than you, who feels that they know everything. Eddie had given him a tight nod and stepped out at his floor, resolutely ignoring the strange twisting knots in his stomach that felt like something approaching dread. He went about his work, as usual, barely listening to his desk mates boring gossip. It hadn’t even passed eleven in the morning when his inbox had pinged with the inevitable email, requesting his presence in his bosses office. And it had happened exactly as he’d expected. The spiel about his hard work and dedication. The self-congratulatory speech about how wonderful the company was, and how lucky anyone was to be there. A sharp reminder of his new responsibilities. And then silence. Eddie could hear the words in his head, in the gap where he was expected to accept the promotion with overwhelming gratitude: 

_‘I would love to accept the role, thank you for this incredible opportunity, I won’t let you down._ ’

The words were on the tip of his tongue. But instead, he’d just stared. And stared. His boss’s wide fake smile faded and her brow furrowed. 

“Eddie?” She prompted. He startled and looked around at the office. Four grey walls and a desk, plus the obligatory photo of the family, next to the computer monitor. Absently, he realised that he had no photos displayed on his desk, nothing of himself at all. His stomach twisted up further alongside that realisation, and he swallowed, clenching his clammy palms. He couldn’t do this. Heart pounding, he scraped the chair back and stood up on shaky legs. His boss had looked positively alarmed. 

“I’m sorry,” He’d stuttered out, “I… um. I need to think.” And he’d fled. 

*****

A loud, blaring horn startles Eddie out of his reverie and he jumps. Looking up, he remembers the traffic lights in front of him and realises he’s come to a momentary standstill in front of a green light. He swears violently and accelerates, raising his hand in apology to the angry New Yorkers behind him. His headache approaching migraine territory, he swerves into his correct lane, ignoring the ire of the surrounding drivers, still caught up in his day. By the end of it, he had typed out his acceptance email and it was ready to send. But he still hadn’t. Eddie frowns at himself in the mirror, his hands on the wheel all clammy and damp. God. What was wrong with him? In the long, agonising crawl of his commute, it dawns on him how completely ridiculous he’s been. 

_Tomorrow,_ he decides. He’ll get over himself, and send the email tomorrow. There. 

And as for Myra, well. He sighs. He’d just tell Myra he already had the role. No need to upset her, he reasons, and besides, she’d inevitably demand a detailed explanation for his delay in accepting. An explanation he couldn’t give her. He could barely explain it to himself. But anyway, he as good as had the job, he’d accept the position tomorrow, and it would be as if nothing had ever happened. This… blip, or momentary indecision, or whatever it was, could all just be chalked up to nerves. Eddie nods decisively. Of course, nerves. That’s what it was. It was completely normal for anyone to clam up and need a moment to think upon receiving such momentous news. And with a good nights sleep and Myra’s support, the nagging feeling that stopped him sending the email earlier this afternoon will have gone. 

  
  


******

  
  


By the time he gets home, it’s well past eight o clock, but for once Myra does not greet him with her usual blunt irritation and reproaches. Instead, she ushers him in, calls him husband at least three times instead of his name, and puts his things away for him in a flurry. 

“A senior analyst at such a great company, and yet you’re incapable of getting home on time for your wife,” Myra scolds, and usually she’d press the matter, but for once she’s beaming at him. In anticipation of The Big News. Inwardly sighing, Eddie slips into character with great effort and pastes a smile onto his own face. 

“Manager, now.” He corrects, as expected, and Myra practically squeals. Her little hands come together in a delighted clap and she moves towards him. 

“Darling!” She exclaims, throwing her arms around his neck. Her hands clasp like a vice and he returns the hug mechanically. “Oh, it’s my dream come true! New role!”

“Our dream,” Eddie corrects her, gently, but the words taste strange in his mouth. Myra doesn’t appear to hear him anyway, she’s removed herself from his arms and is talking, rapid-fire, about how wonderful their lives are about to become. Eddie swallows and watches her face move. Now, she tells him, she can fully devote her time to the important things. She’ll quit her job and make their house a proper home. She can spend more time cleaning, and cooking and looking after her darling husband. All because of his wonderfully well-paid promotion. Well, Eddie never was particularly ambitious anyway, it's why he needs Myra, she tells him, to push him into these new things. 

Myra talks at him about his promotion over a poorly cooked dinner, whilst he dutifully makes the appropriate noises whenever she pauses, and then excitedly tells Jean over the phone about how her “ _dearest Eddie finally did it",_ her voice gloating. He hadn’t even been aware that they knew a Jean. One of Myra’s friends, he supposes. 

He’s silent as they watch their usual round of television, though Myra rattles on about the future. Perhaps a new house? And have they thought about a new car? Children even? Eddie just watches the TV and says nothing. He’s said nothing of note since he’s returned home.

 _I didn’t take it,_ Eddie thinks silently at her. _I didn’t do it, I couldn’t._ But of course, he says nothing. The hours' pass, agonisingly, and somehow it’s late, all of a sudden. Myra has finished her usual potter around the kitchen, cleaning “for her husband”, before disappearing into their shared bedroom. 

“Come to bed, sweetie,” Myra calls and Eddie stares wearily at the bedroom door. 

“I’m going to take a shower.” He says, after a long pause. Myra says nothing, but her disapproval and disappointment radiate through the room as she watches him pick up a clean towel and pyjamas, before heading to their shared ensuite. As he flicks the bathroom light on, he meets her eyes. They’re wide and beseeching, and for a moment he feels like a small, thirteen-year-old boy caught doing something he shouldn’t be. He shakes himself. 

“Come to bed,” Myra insists, her voice low. Eddie stares. She’s trying to be seductive, he realises, vaguely horrified, as she pats the space next to her on the bed. A sickening sensation spreads through his body, as he recalls their earlier, one-sided conversation about children in front of the television. He breaks eye contact with his wife and focuses on the floor. 

“I’m exhausted,” He says, softly, and looks back up to see Myra deflate. He’s unable to ever reject her advances outright; often he’ll grit his teeth and go along with whatever she starts. These days, though, the advances have all but disappeared. Married life, Eddie had presumed. 

“It was a long day.” He murmurs, apologetically, but Myra has already turned her back to him. Sighing, he closes the door gently and silently locks it. 

_Coward,_ he screams in his head. _Coward, coward, coward_. 

He showers for what feels like a long time, not particularly unusual for him and his hygiene standards. Nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that Myra will jump on. But even when he scrubs his body down three, four, times, he’s unable to scrape away the loathing clinging to his skin. Afterwards, he brushes his teeth in front of the mirror, in clean and crisp striped pyjamas, and his reflection gazes back at him dejectedly. God, does he always look this tired? And is his skin really that… grey looking? Flat, neatly-parted hair- thinning. Lined, weary eyes. A slight downturn to his mouth; a perpetual frown.

He can hardly recognise himself and abruptly decides to stop looking. Robotically, he returns his toothbrush to its holder and silently leaves the bathroom, before sliding into bed. He holds his breath, anticipating Myra to pounce, but all he gets is a loud, rattling snore. He closes his eyes in relief, letting the exhaustion of the day sweep over him. Before long, he falls into a deep, bottomless sleep. 

  
  


********

  
  


He’s floating, or perhaps he’s not. He feels strangely untethered as if he’s barely inhabiting his body at all. He glances around him, though he doesn’t physically move, but everything is dark and endless. 

“I’m dreaming.” He states, but not with his mouth. Does he even have a mouth? He ponders on this for a while, content to float through the nothingness. He sighs. What a strange dream. Then, out of the darkness, something approximating an amused laugh echoes around him. If Eddie could figure out where all his limbs were, he would have jumped at the suddenness of the noise. Instead, he just floats. 

“Oh, child,” says a voice, presumably the same voice that laughed. The voice is tinged with some indecipherable emotion, but it makes Eddie feel strange. “I fear you’ve made a wrong turn.” What? Eddie tries to frown, or mimic the feeling of a frown, at least. 

“I can’t turn,” Eddie argues, towards nothing. “‘I’m floating. I don’t have control of my body.” The voice laughs at him.

“You’re lost, Eddie Kaspbrak. And, so are they,” The voice informs him, nonsensically. And then it turns thoughtful. “Perhaps, a glimpse. A chance to see the other path.” It muses. 

“You’re making no sense,” Eddie says, crossly. He wishes he would wake up now, and escape this strange, all-encompassing voice. 

“You will wake up, Eddie. You just need to _open your eyes_.” 

Eddie blinks as the space around him begins to fill with white light. Everything, or nothing, starts to glow and pulse with a strange energy. Suddenly, a turtle appears in front of him. It’s small and looks vaguely confused. Well, Eddie can relate. 

“Hello, there,” Eddie says, in his best reassuring tone, and reaches out to touch- and, oh! He has an arm now, and a hand and fingers and then- Nothing. As everything fades, the turtle tilts its head at Eddie meaningfully and then, as quickly as it appeared, blinks out of existence. And then there is nothing but black. 

\-----------

Eddie groans and flings an arm over his eyes in disgust. God, his headache is back and has somehow gotten worse. He didn’t think it was possible. He hates it when he wakes up with a headache, it puts him in a sour mood for the rest of the day. 

“Wakey wakey, sleepy-head!” Comes a loud, sing-songy voice and Eddie snaps awake, eyes wide in panic. In front of him is a tall, gangly man, dressed in a disgusting pair of ripped jeans that are definitely not appropriate for the man’s age. He is shirtless but holding onto a wrinkled shirt that he clearly intends to put on, which makes Eddie’s own face wrinkle into a frown. Heart hammering in his chest, Eddie tries not to panic as he takes in more of his surroundings, and realises that this is clearly not his bedroom. And he does not know this man. 

“Why the frown, cutie?” The man laughs, and the voice is strangely familiar, tugging on something in Eddie’s brain and confusing him further. The man seems relaxed and cheerful, as he pulls on the wrinkled shirt carelessly and attempts to button it without looking. Eddie glares. 

“What the fuck?” He spits and then winces as his head pounds even harder. The man pauses in his exuberant movements around the room. 

“You alright? How much did you drink in the end, last night?” He asks. Eddie stares. Drink? Myra would never let him drink, especially not in the house. Did he leave the house? He racks his brain desperately. Did he go _drinking?_ Oh, God. 

“Where am I?” He demands and the man laughs, despite the fact that there is absolutely nothing funny about this situation. Maybe he’s been kidnapped and this man is his insane captor. Even if he looks ridiculously incompetent and unthreatening. The unthreatening looking ones are always the crazy ones, in New York. 

“Wow, Bev really got you fucked up, huh?” And Eddie realises with a start that the man has sat on the bed next to him, and is grinning over at him. Eddie feels his heart twist painfully. Bev? 

“Bev?” He repeats out loud, uncertainly. This must definitely be a dream. 

“The dangerous Miss Marsh herself.” He gets in response along with another wicked grin. “I bet she got to you with those fruity cocktails. Didn’t she?” 

The man seems to take Eddie’s silence as confirmation and he laughs. He laughs a lot, it seems, at everything and nothing. It’s an annoying, hyena laugh and Eddie immediately decides that he hates it and this strange, messy man. And then it all clicks into place. Beverly Marsh, his old school friend from ages and ages ago. God, he’s not seen her in years. How on Earth did he end up going out with her? And ending up… oh. Eddie’s eyes snap to the man in front of him, and, suddenly, he sees it. The unruly hair and the unnecessary height and the slightly crooked teeth, albeit straighter than he’s used to. Richie Tozier. 

“Am I dead? Or in a coma?” Eddie demands and Riche laughs delightedly as if that’s the most hilarious thing he’s ever heard. 

“Possibly, if Bev did get to you.” He grins, and then his expression softens into something more private as he looks Eddie over. He leans forwards and ghosts a kiss over Eddie’s mouth before he can move away, then stands up, stretching. 

“I’ll catch you later, babe. Some of us have actual jobs, where we leave the house.” He grabs a jacket off the door and grins sheepishly. “And I’m late.” 

And with that, he’s gone, hollering behind him that Eddie should get some more sleep. Eddie stares at the door that Richie left through, lips tingling. _Babe?_

What. The. Fuck?


	2. Chapter 2

After Richie leaves, Eddie takes a brief moment to focus on not hyperventilating and possibly dying of an asthma attack. Where the fuck would he even find an inhaler in this place? He'd probably just die whilst frantically searching for one. Instead of doing that, he tries to breathe rhythmically and steadily, in an effort to calm down, and, slowly, his pulse returns to a relatively normal pace. For a while, he just sits there silently, in the rather comfortable bed that he has found himself in. Maybe he can just outwait this, and it will all just go away, some part of him reasons. When it becomes apparent that he’s not going anywhere anytime soon, he looks around, trying to take stock of his situation. It’s not a huge room, but it has enough space for the large king bed, a closet and a large, modern standing mirror. A plant hangs at the window, and Eddie stares at it for a long moment. Myra had never really understood houseplants; she considered them dirty and far too much effort. Why bring the outdoors inside? Eddie had always agreed with her, but looking at the trailing green leaves in the bright light coming through the window, he thinks that maybe he was wrong. _Myra_ was wrong.

Aside from the plant, the rest of the room is fairly nondescript. It’s a pleasant cream colour and the wood seems like something Eddie would pick out- nice quality and well-made. On the bedside table, there's a framed photo of two figures and Eddie immediately averts his eyes and stares down at the unthreatening white sheets instead. 

“Right.” He says, to the empty room. “Come on then. Think.” 

He’s still unconvinced that this isn’t a hallucination or dream, but if it is a dream then it feels incredibly real. He pinches his own arm, hard. 

“Ow.” 

Okay, so, this is probably real. Or real-ish. Scrunching his face up, he thinks back to his weird… dream that he had, or whatever it was, trying to recall the details. It’s all gone slightly fuzzy in his head, but he remembers that it was probably important. 

_...made a wrong turn…_

_Eddie… just need to open your eyes..._

A strange light, he thinks, and that _voice_ … Eddie shakes his head. It doesn’t make any sense _._ Whenever he reaches for the memory of the dream, it slips away like water through his fingers. But the dream must be something to do with all this, he reasons. He’s never really had voices so mysterious and weird talking to him in his dreams before. So, somewhere, some deity or fate was fucking with him. He’d seen 13 going on 30, okay, he had some clue of what was up here. Frankly, he was offended that the fates felt like they needed to interfere; he’d been getting along just _fine._

“I have a perfectly fine life.” He tells the air. “I don’t need any help. I’m all good. So, thank you, but no thank you.” Nothing replies. Eddie looks down at himself. 

_Who are you trying to convince?_ He thinks, in the silence. _The fates or yourself?_

A vibrating noise breaks the quiet of the room, and Eddie jumps about three feet in the air. It takes him a few moments to recognise the sound as a phone, and he locates it buzzing on the bedside table on his side of the bed. He snatches it up and looks apprehensively at the lit-up screen; displaying an incoming call from a contact named _Bevvie_. Eddie bites his lip in indecision, finger hovering over the decline button for a few seconds before decisively ending the call. Right, well, with that taken care of- 

Bzzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz! Bzzzzzz!

Eddie sighs in resignation as the phone immediately starts vibrating in his hand again with another incoming call from Beverly Marsh. He stares at the phone for a moment longer. He could just turn it off…? 

“Fuck it,” He mutters, and accepts the call with trepidation. 

“Hello?” He says, uncertainly. 

“Did you hang up on me?” Bev demands on the other side of the phone but doesn’t pause to let him answer. “Look, I know you need your beauty sleep or you get all bitchy, yada yada, but we’ve got to get these designs finalised by, like, yesterday. And don’t even get me started on the Richie thing!”  
  
Eddie has very little memory of Bev, and is certain that he should remember someone who sounds this exuberant and wild. And that he was willingly _friends with,_ as a kid. In the back of his head, he thinks vaguely that she was a red-head. But he cannot for the life of him picture her properly. 

“The Richie thing, right.” He agrees, a beat too late, and if it were possible to hear frowns, Bev’s would be loud and clear. 

“Are you okay, hon? You sound off?” Bev asks, and Eddie has no idea what sounds right to her. If one out-of-character hesitation sends her alarm bells ringing, then he has no idea what to say that won’t be off to her. He flounders. 

“Yeah, I'm fine, I just didn’t sleep well.” He manages, sounding unconvincing even to his own ears. 

“Bad dreams?” 

“You could say that,” Eddie mutters, surprised at her accurate line of guessing, and Bev makes a thoughtful, if concerned, humming noise down the line. 

“Was it the voices again?” 

This time, the question throws Eddie for such a loop that for a moment all he can do is stare stupidly at the phone in his hand. 

“What?”

“The Almighty Voice,” Bev says, matter-of-factly, and then her voice turns serious. “Eddie, if you’ve been having the _dreams_ again- 

“The dreams?” Eddie interrupts and Bev sighs. 

“You know perfectly well what I’m on about, so don’t try to act like nothing’s wrong. Yes, the _dreams._ Those strange, creepy dreams that we all seem to have, with that weird voice and the bright light. Sound familiar?”

God, this day was getting weirder and weirder by the second. Eddie had _so_ many questions. Who was “we”, anyway? And why the fuck would they all be having these dreams? Were they all collectively insane? Seemingly unperturbed by Eddie’s lack of an answer, Bev barrels on. 

“Look, I know we’re both super swamped right now, but there's always time for coffee and a chat. Meet you at Jack’s for 12?”

“Jack's,” Eddie mouths to himself in confusion and then realises that Bev was still waiting for an answer. 

“Er, sure. 12 is fine.” He says, completely and utterly bewildered but thinking that at this point there was no other option but to just go along with it all. From the sounds of it, Bev could have some answers to his questions- maybe swapping bodies or jumping dimensions was common here, and this was just par for the course. And if she didn’t have the answers, well. Eddie would just have to figure out some other way to get home. 

“Great!” Bev enthuses. “I’ll see you then, don’t forget the folder, and try not to stress too much over the dreams, honey.” And she hangs up before Eddie can ask what the fuck folder she meant. Well, shit. 

He looks down at the phone, and the screen glares back at him, informing him that it's just gone 9 in the morning. Right, so only a few hours to shower, and figure out where the hell Jack’s was, assuming it was a cafe nearby. And to find that stupid folder. 

Inspiration suddenly strikes him as he moves to get up- he can just go out and _find_ his home and eventually track Myra down. Maybe she’ll still be here, maybe this is just all some extremely weird, elaborate trick or kidnapping still. He nods to himself, feeling reassured to have a plan, and finally gets out of bed. 

Step one, shower. 

*********

One hot, numbing shower later, and Eddie is nearly back to feeling like himself again. Aside from the immediate and fairly concerning problems- Is he losing his mind? Is he trapped in an alternate dimension?- he feels surprisingly good. Emerging from the shower, he bends to wrap himself in a towel and, as he straightens, catches a glimpse of his face in the condensation heavy mirror. He squints, leaning forward to wipe at the condensation, and then stares. 

Gone are the dark circles that seemed permanently embedded beneath his eyes and the dead, tired look that haunted them. His hair is… stylish? And curling slightly, which Myra had never liked. He’d always been sure to get his hair cut regularly before it was long enough to curl around his neck. It’s also lighter, suspiciously so, like he’d gotten highlights. He narrows his eyes even more, yep, definitely highlights. But it looks, well- he looks good. Healthy. Frankly, he looks better than he’d seen himself look in a long time. Tentatively, he smiles at himself, and even that looks better, as if it were more at home on his face. He shakes himself. 

_Stop it_ , he tells himself, sternly and adamantly looks away, stalking out of the bathroom.

His wardrobe, however, turns out to be an equally bewildering situation. First of all, there are two sides, one containing a violent array of colours and patterns that gives Eddie a headache and a weird, twisting feeling in his gut. He fruitlessly attempts to ignore the headache-inducing clothes, plus the fact that there are two sets of _male_ clothes in his _shared_ wardrobe with _Richie Tozier._ God, this must be some kind of cosmic joke, specifically designed to test Eddie, he’s sure of it. Not only is he straight, but there’s absolutely no way that he’d ever date someone with such insane, ugly fashion sense. 

Even ignoring the second side of the wardrobe, the clothes occupying what he presumes to be his own side are… different, to say the least, from what he usually wears. He supposes that what he usually wears at home is suits for work. It dawns on him that what is throwing him off about this wardrobe is the amount of colour before him. He racks his brain, trying to remember the last time he bought himself bright clothing or, really, any clothes. He thinks Myra bought him his last pair of brown slacks, and that was only because they’d been on sale. Browns and neutrals, fairly smart. That’s what he was used to.

Overwhelmed, he reaches for a pair of dark trousers and a soft-looking sweater and closes the wardrobe before he has another panic attack. 

“Okay,” He says to himself, feeling vaguely triumphant. Now, just the folder left. It doesn’t take long to find it, or what Eddie assumes is it. It’s a big, grey folder, stuffed to bursting, and Eddie eyes it more than a little curiously. He flips it open and is pleasantly surprised to see a little content divider; the folder is arranged into logical sections. It reminds Eddie… of himself. Which is both a reassuring and alarming thought. 

“SEASON DESIGNS” is the first section, in bold but neat print that he recognises as his own. Followed by “RESEARCH”, “ROUGH SKETCHES”, “PATTERN SUGGESTIONS”, “COMPETITION”, and “MODELS?”. He flips the page, to see a beautifully drawn-out design of a tailored suit, with measurements scrawled beside it. What the hell? He thinks of Richie’s comment from earlier: “Some of us have actual jobs, where we leave the house”. 

Clearly, Eddie works from home… designing suits? With Beverly Marsh. He shakes his head in amused bewilderment. Someone was definitely fucking with him. He shuts the folder gently and tucks it under his arm, impressed with the quality of the designs and wondering if he had that drawing talent (he’d never really attempted to draw before), despite himself. Then, he huffs out a laugh. It didn’t matter, whatever weird job _this_ Eddie had, it wasn’t his life. He glances at the time; it was only 10. Probably plenty of time to get to Jack’s, wherever the hell that was. Eddie hadn’t heard of it, but then he didn’t really go out to cafes in New York because he rarely had the time. He and Myra tended to go for restaurant dinners if they ever ate out. 

He unlocks his- no, _the_ \- phone with his thumbprint, sending a quick prayer to the heavens that thumbprints were a thing so that he wasn’t barred from using the phone because of a dumb passcode. He opens the Maps app and starts to type in Jack’s Cafe, only to stare at his current set location. He wasn’t in New York. 

He was in L.A. 

Eyes wide in horror, Eddie sucks in a breath and grips the phone in his hand tightly. If he’s not in New York, then he can’t just go and find his home, or his job, or even Myra. What, was he supposed to book a flight just to check in with his boss? And the longer he stands there, phone in hand and unmoving, the more he realises: this isn’t a dream or a hallucination. He’d moved _cities_ overnight for Christ’s sake. He’d never believed in alternate dimensions before, not really, but when presented with the hard evidence… clearly, this isn't his world, anymore. He resists the urge to scream, and walks blindly to the large-as-life couch in the apartment, flinging himself down on it. 

“Fuck.” He says and immediately feels better. He swears some more. “Fuck, fuck fuck.”

It’s then that it occurs to Eddie that he literally has a phone in his hand- a working phone, at that, which nearly any dummy could work. He mentally slaps himself, hard, and clicks on his messages. Most recently, is _Bevvie,_ reminding him to bring the folder. Which, rude. He has impeccable memory and organisation skills- as if he would forget. He shakes his head. Beneath that, a contact called _DUMBASS_ has several new, unread messages and he opens the conversation before he can chicken out of it. 

**Takeaway tonite? Pls pls pls pls pls** reads the latest message.

A few minutes earlier, two more texts had been sent in succession, both with the equally as irritating spelling and casual tone:

**EDS!!!! get me out of here pls, im so bored**

**I love you, but the fact that ur asleep right now is HURTFUL to me. get a proper job!!!!1**

His eyes linger on that last message, the “I love you” screaming out at him and engraving itself in his head. He doesn’t quite remember the last time Myra said that she loved him, or when he said it to her. It’s not really a phrase that they flippantly toss around to each other. His heart clenches. He realises there is a whole string of messages between this Richie and Eddie, though he’s not sure why he’s surprised by that. Of course, this world’s Eddie would talk to his, um, boyfriend. He scrolls upwards and reads, fascinated. There’s general admin stuff, of course, like where they are and what they should have for dinner or what groceries they should buy. But they joke with each other too, sometimes even bordering on fighting, but it never turns vicious. It’s friendly bickering, as far as Eddie can see. Often, there are references to things and people Eddie doesn’t know or understand, and the jokes exchanged between the two make no sense and fly right over his head. It’s evident that the texts are private; they’re comfortable with each other and it’s clearly a conversation between two people who know each other intimately. Eddie has no idea who this person texting Richie _is._ It’s not him. But they seem happy together, he thinks, from what he reads, if settled into a routine. A pang of longing goes through him, as he thinks back to the previous night between him and Myra. 

_No._ He thinks, firmly. _You and Myra are fine._ Still, he stops reading the messages and puts the phone firmly down. He feels weirdly invasive after reading them, like he’s watching something intimate that he’s not a part of. For what feels like the millionth time, Eddie sighs deeply and puts his head in his hands, completely at loss as for what to do and how to feel. And he still has to meet Bev. He grimaces into his hands at the thought of venturing out into LA, somewhere even more terrifyingly unfamiliar than this apartment, to meet a friend he has no recollection of. 

Well, he supposes. It’s not like the day can get much worse. And he gathers his stuff up to leave in a manner similar to a man being marched to the guillotine. Time to meet the mysterious Beverly Marsh, get some answers and go _home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you've watched Next in Fashion, then please know that Eddie's job is Daniel. His designs look like Daniel's suits and I love them, and so should you.


End file.
